Dona Nobis Pacem
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: A Christmas story from Nick's mortal past.


==================================  
Dona Nobis Pacem  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) December 1999  
===================================  
  
I think it's time for some Christmas storytelling, don't you? Here's my  
offering of a little Christmas vignette.  
  
Permission is given to post this to Mel's fanfic site, as well as the FTP  
site. We know who owns these characters. My thanks for letting us take them  
out and mess with their lives.  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Nick, tell me a Christmas story." Natalie Lambert took a sip from her  
wineglass, savoring the deep, rich flavor of the ruby red port, and  
gazed hopefully at her companion seated at the other end of the  
leather sofa.  
  
"A Christmas story?" Nick queried. He took a sip from his own glass  
and stretched out his legs. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You know, something from long ago."  
  
"What do you want to know? How we celebrated? That sort of thing?"  
  
Natalie ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, smiling  
slightly as the crystal sang. "I don't know, it just seems like a good  
time for a Christmas story." She waved a hand at the windows. "It's  
cold and snowing outside, and it's warm and comfy here inside. We've  
got a nice fire burning in the fireplace, and I feel relaxed because  
I'm all done with shopping and decorating and all that. I'm ready for  
a story. And I bet you've got stories -- lots and lots of 'em." She  
snuggled a little deeper into the corner of the sofa. "Please?"  
  
"Hmmm, let me think a bit." Nick frowned into his glass. He had to  
admit he felt quietly happy and relaxed himself. It was an odd  
sensation, but one that came more and more often whenever he spent an  
evening with Natalie. Tonight they had watched "A Charlie Brown  
Christmas" in his loft and then turned the television off to simply  
sit and watch the fire. Shadows danced softly in the darkened room,  
and the air was scented with pine from the fresh boughs Nick had put  
in a large vase on his dining room table, his only concession to  
decorating for the season  
  
His thoughts turned to Christmases past. Yes, he had lots of Christmas  
stories, but not many were the kind he wanted to relate to Natalie.  
  
There was one, though...  
  
"Let me tell you about a Christmas a long, long time ago, when 'peace  
on Earth, goodwill toward men' had a very personal meaning..."  
  
======================================  
Somewhere in the Western Desert, Egypt  
Christmas Eve, 1220  
======================================  
  
Nicolas de Brabant rode slowly towards the small clump of date palms  
lit redly in the distance by the setting sun. He was exhausted and  
desperately thirsty. He knew that where there were palms, there was  
water -- that is, if this wasn't a mirage.  
  
The sandstorm had struck suddenly early that morning, coming  
seemingly out of nowhere. One moment the sky was blue and the next a  
murky wall of dust and sand had risen out of the north to engulf him  
and his companion. In a matter of moments they could see and hear  
nothing except the driving clouds of stinging, suffocating sand and  
the buffeting gale.  
  
Shouting into the wind, Nicolas had tried desperately to locate his  
companion, but he had been riding ahead of him and had disappeared  
into the murk. Nicolas finally gave up and concentrated on his own  
survival.  
  
He made his horse lie down and, after hastily tying a cloth over the  
gelding's muzzle to try to keep the sand out of its nostrils, he threw  
his cloak over his head and hunkered down in the scant protection the  
animal's body provided.  
  
He lost track of time as the storm howled around him. He could only  
hope that Francois had had the presence of mind to do the same.  
  
This expedition had been a disaster from the start. He had been  
selected to take a message from his commander to the Duc D'Anjou in a  
camp some two days to the west, through territory frequented by Muslim  
warriors. Nicolas had resented that he was chosen for such a menial  
and dangerous task, but his commander had felt that sending his  
message via a mere soldier would be an insult to the Duc. Nicolas was  
perfect -- a nobleman, but not one so high in rank that his loss would  
be much lamented. And, Nicolas thought bitterly, his commander  
probably was under instructions from Lord Delabarre, the man who had  
sent him on Crusade in the first place, to give him ample opportunity  
to get killed. At least they had given him Francois, a sturdy,  
dependable man-at-arms, to accompany him.  
  
But they had gotten lost and had taken four days, not two, to locate  
the Duc and deliver the message. The Duc had reprimanded Nicolas for  
tardiness and sent him back with a stinging rebuke, not allowing them  
even a day's rest before returning to his commander with the reply.  
And then Francois had taken ill with fever, sitting pale and quiet on  
his plodding horse as they trekked back over the arid plain towards  
their encampment.  
  
And now this.  
  
The storm must have lasted for half the day, although it seemed like  
forever. When the winds finally died down and the sun dimly  
reappeared, both he and his horse were half-buried in sand. He  
struggled to stand and then urged the horse to its feet. Sand had been  
driven into everything -- it was in his clothes, in his mouth,  
everywhere. He vainly tried to shake it from himself as he looked  
around for Francois.  
  
Nothing. He was alone in an endless, featureless sea of sand and hard-  
packed dirt. He called, "Francois, where are you?" over and over to no  
avail. Only the now-quiet hissing of the hot breeze over the sand  
answered him.  
  
Finally he gave up. He would have to find his way home himself. The  
impact of losing Francois suddenly hit him -- not only was he a  
solitary man in a hostile land, but Francois had been carrying all the  
provisions. All Nicolas had was a skin of water, and that three-  
quarters empty.  
  
Fighting down a sudden panic, he mounted his horse and turned it away  
from the westering sun. He knew at least that if he headed east long  
enough, he would find the Nile. He only hoped he and his horse lasted  
long enough to reach it.  
  
It was a miracle that the oasis appeared after he had traveled only  
six hours. Even in December, the heat was intense; he had drunk his  
last mouthful of water two hours before and he felt as dessicated as  
one of those mummies he had seen soon after he arrived in Egypt.  
  
When he finally reached the oasis he found it consisted of a shallow,  
reedy pool of water surrounded by a dozen date palms and scrubby  
brush. His horse rushed into the pool and plunged its head into the  
murky water to drink noisily. Nicolas slid off and almost fell into  
the water, barely managing to stay upright by hanging onto his saddle.  
He, like his horse, plunged his head into the pool, luxuriating in the  
cool wetness on his sunburned face.  
  
Once his thirst had been slaked he surveyed his surroundings. There  
was evidence the oasis was visited, but not heavily; there was dried  
camel and horse dung and the marks of a campfire. He looked hopefully  
into the shadowed heights of the palms, but could see no fruit ready  
to be picked.  
  
Oh, well. He had been hungry before. At least he had water and the  
makings of a fire.  
  
He stripped the saddle off his horse and hobbled it so it could forage  
for itself on the tough vegetation. In the gathering twilight he  
collected as much brush and dung as he could for his campfire. It was  
getting cold now -- the desert night was as chill as the day was hot.  
  
Once the fire was burning, he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay back  
against his saddle, and stared up into the night sky. He counted the  
days from when he had left his encampment, and realized it was  
Christmas Eve. His thoughts turned to his family. Were they getting  
ready for Midnight Mass? Enjoying the feast, drinking spiced wine and  
eating savory dishes? His stomach cramped at the thought of food.  
Better not dwell on that subject too much.  
  
He craned his head around to the east. Was this the same sky the Wise  
Men had seen that had beckoned them on to Bethlehem? There was no  
bright guiding star now to lead Crusaders to the east and Jerusalem,  
just the familiar constellations. Orion was hanging huge and bright  
near the horizon, his hunting dogs on his heels, his flaming sword at  
his side.  
  
Suddenly Nicolas heard something -- a faint clinking and the muffled  
sound of hooves on sand. He sat upright and stared into the dark,  
trying to see what was approaching. He clutched at his sword and  
waited tensely.  
  
A white blur rose out of the gloom into the faint light thrown by his  
fire and transfigured into a man leading a horse. He stopped abruptly  
and stared at Nicolas, his hand flying to the dagger at his side.  
  
The two men stared silently at each other. The leaping flames of  
Nicolas' fire revealed a sturdy, middle-aged man, his face dark and  
weathered, wearing the flowing white robes and headdress of a desert  
dweller. His horse was of the small, finely boned desert breed, and  
looked to be lame.  
  
When Nicolas made no threatening move, the man warily led his horse to  
the pool and allowed it to drink. Keeping his eyes on the foreigner,  
he stooped to drink himself, keeping one hand on his dagger.  
  
Still Nicolas made no move. In truth, he was too weary to fight, and  
the thought of trying to take a life on this holy night repulsed him.  
It was a night for peace, not war.  
  
The Muslim retreated a bit from the pool and settled to the ground,  
gathering his robes closely around himself, his horse tethered nearby.  
Nicolas realized that he had collected every available scrap that  
could be burned; the man could make no fire on this cold, frosty  
night.  
  
The two were a scant stone's throw apart. Nicolas could see the man  
was cold and it troubled him. But what could he do? This man was the  
enemy. But as he stared through his fire at the figure huddled on the  
other side of the pool, it didn't seem to him that the man was an  
enemy. He was a lone traveler, just like himself, and was in need.  
Nicolas had to do something.  
  
Finally, he slowly and deliberately laid his sword away from himself  
and gestured to the man, waving him towards the fire.  
  
"Come," he called, even though he knew the man wouldn't understand  
him. "Let us share this fire. It isn't right that I am warm and you  
are not." He gestured again.  
  
Slowly the Muslim stood and approached the fire, wary that the offer  
was a trick. When Nicolas still made no move except to smile and  
gesture again, he sat on the other side of the blaze and held out his  
hands to the warmth. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight, and he  
nodded to the weary Crusader. He said something in his liquid tongue,  
then pointed to himself and said slowly, "Hamid Ibn Shefia."  
  
Nicolas repeated it awkwardly, then pointed to himself and said his  
own name.  
  
Hamid nodded again, then opened a pack he had brought with him and set  
out his supper -- dates, cheese, and some dried meat. He glanced up at  
Nicolas, who was unsuccessfully trying not to eye the food. He grinned  
suddenly, his teeth flashing whitely in the firelight, and said  
something, then proceeded to parcel out two portions and offer Nicolas  
one.  
  
Nicolas accepted the food gratefully, and soon the two men were eating  
in companionable silence. As he ate his meager meal, Nicolas couldn't  
help but wonder what his family would think of his Christmas Eve  
repast, shared with the sworn enemy of Christendom. Although, he  
reflected ruefully, it was the sworn enemy of Christendom who had  
shared his Christmas Eve repast with *him*.  
  
The meal finished, Hamid again reached into his pack and brought forth  
a slender wooden flute. He began playing, the music strange and exotic  
to Nicolas' ears. Perhaps, he thought as he listened, it was this sort  
of music that the shepherds had played to their sheep in the hills  
around Bethlehem, and that the Christ child had heard from his bed in  
the manger.  
  
After the song's notes quavered and died in the still, cold air,  
Nicolas offered his own music, singing a Christmas carol about  
shepherds and stars and the birth of his Savior. Hamid listened  
intently, nodding every so often as he absorbed the alien melody. And  
then, when Nicolas had finished, he played another song.  
  
They traded music back and forth through the evening, and even though  
they could not speak to each other, they understood each other  
perfectly.  
  
Finally the silences between songs grew longer and longer until it was  
time to sleep. Nicolas knelt briefly to offer a prayer for Christmas,  
and to give thanks for his good fortune to be alive and for Francois'  
soul, for he felt sadly certain that he was surely dead. Hamid watched  
him from his bed next to the fire, and when Nicolas was done he  
murmured a few words that sounded like his own prayer and closed his  
eyes to sleep.  
  
Early the next morning found the unlikely companions once again  
sharing a meal. "I must go now," Nicolas said when they had finished,  
and pointed in the direction of the rising sun and made walking  
motions with his fingers. Hamid nodded his understanding and pointed  
to himself, and then to the west. He must continue his own journey.  
  
Nicolas stood and began the process of putting on his heavy, hot  
hauberk and chain mail.  
  
Hamid was vastly amused at the sight and stopped him with a gesture.  
He went to his saddlebags and drew out a spare headcloth and presented  
it to the bemused knight. He mimed how Nicolas should wear it as  
protection against the fierce sun and pack away his armor for the trip  
across the sands.  
  
Nicolas thought briefly of the misery of the day before, and thanked  
Hamid gravely for the gift. The generosity of the desert dweller  
humbled him, and he cast about for a gift he could give him in return.  
He had so little...  
  
He fumbled in his own pack until he found the small knife his brother  
had given him many years before. It had a plain, utilitarian blade,  
but the bone handle was finely carved with leaping stags and hunting  
dogs. He held it out to Hamid, who accepted it with an admiring smile.  
  
"Joyeux Noel, mon ami. Merci." Nicolas bowed, and then the two men  
embraced: strangers and enemies, yet friends, brought together by chance  
and the simple kindnesses of shared warmth, sustenance, and music.  
  
As he rode away, Nicolas turned around and looked back. Hamid raised  
a hand in farewell, then turned to go his own way.  
  
It was a fine Christmas day.  
  
Finis  
  
"Dona nobis pacem" is Latin for "grant us thy peace."  
  
==================================  
Comments, criticisms, and musically inclined  
knights may be sent to:  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
Merry Christmas to all!  
==================================  
  



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